Weathered old-looking crevasses in a radiating face . . .

His face had the look of oldness. Embellished in time weathered creases. Separated by contours of résistance to weathering.

I would look up. Look into his face. And feel the warmth of his radiance.

He had heard I was a dietitian. Somehow he sensed I could be trusted.

So we were seated at a round, wooden table. Four chairs. Two of them had cushions on the wooden seats.

We gathered to plan a meal. The next Group Dinner.

I discovered he was a chef.

His first act was to bring out a leather embossed folder. I opened it. His graduation certificate from a culinary arts program. The physical manifestation of his sense of personal value and worth.

But it was the book he laid before me. Green plastic ring binder. Tabs. Lots of tabs. And plastic document protectors protecting his work of several years.

The business plan for his restaurant.

Quite frankly, I was stunned! And told him how I wished my former students in their assignments would have been as comprehensive in their work as he is in his.

I gawked. Marveled. Turning pages revealed more incredible detail.

I would look up.

His face.

Beaming.

Radiant.

He has plans. He, along with another at that table. Another chef.

Plans.

And those plans transcend the history of why they are now planning a Group Dinner for recently released convicted felons.

But his face. Those crevices. Knurled and weathered they would seem to be.

But deep within those facial creases the emission of the radiance of hope. Of value. Of meaning.

Weathered old-looking crevasses in a radiating face . . .

The Refectory Manager